Love, Death, Chariot of Fire

by Winton Higgins

  Hilton leads Mitchell and the two pilots into the office and closes the door. ‘For the moment I’ll take your brief answers out there as read, EJ. But what’s your answer to the question whether squadron pilots could fly a machine like this?’

  ‘The controls could hardly be easier and simpler. It actually presents fewer difficulties than other fighters, Ted. Pilots will need very quick reflexes to handle its speed and responsiveness, but they’d need them for any modern fighter, I’d say. What do you think, Mutt?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Other than that, the instrument panel should include a sign reminding the pilot to drop the undercart before landing.’

  Hilton pulls a face. ‘Pity Supermarine didn’t think of that before delivering the plane to us.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Edwardes Jones winces. ‘Yes, well, I’m very sorry if I gave you a scare, gentlemen. Scared myself half to death too, actually. Bill Pegg coming in with the Fury quite threw me off my game for a moment. No excuse, though.’

  Hilton seems to be mollified. ‘You may need a stiff Scotch before you ring up and report to the air marshal then. The bottle and glasses are in the corner cabinet over there. In the meantime I’ll get one of our people to drive our guests to their digs and a fine dinner in town. Mitch and Mutt, many thanks for your help. Always a pleasure doing business with Supermarine. I’ll see you back here in the morning.’ Reginald Mitchell’s office, Supermarine works, Woolston. Thursday 4 June 1936, noon. Mitchell hears a peremptory knock on his door. He wonders why Vera has for once failed to head off an unscheduled interruption. ‘Come in, damn it!’ he growls. But the caller is already letting himself in.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Bob,’ Mitchell says, getting up from his chair. ‘We don’t usually have the pleasure of seeing you here in Woolston on a Thursday.’

  ‘Good day to you, too, RJ! I had to deliver a letter to you.’

  ‘Really? Don’t trust the postal service anymore, do we? So what’s the letter all about?’

  ‘It’s from the ministry.’ McLean dumps the letter down on Mitchell’s desk.

  ‘Yes, well, we get quite a few letters from them. What do they want this time?’

  ‘Spitfires! Three hundred and ten of them!’

  ‘What?! ’

  ‘You heard. They’ll pay us one and a quarter million quid for them. All to be delivered by January 1939.’

  Mitchell sinks back into his chair. ‘Good God! I’ve never heard of an order for so many aircraft.’

  ‘There’s never been one.’

  ‘How the devil are we going to build that many? We’re basically a small jobbing outfit. We’ll need a veritable assembly line to produce that number.’

  ‘Not your problem, RJ. You’ve done your bit. Designed and built the killer fighter I always wanted. Now it’s up to the production engineers. Starting with our pugnacious works superintendent, Trevor Westbrook. Anyway, it has to be doable. Assembly line, yes. And sourcing components and sub-assemblies from other firms. We’ll cope! Have to! It’s our patriotic duty – Britain is rearming at long last!’

  ‘I’m having trouble absorbing all this.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that either, RJ. Congratulations are due to you first and foremost. You’ll end up being one of the Nazis’ deadliest enemies, even if they’re too bloody stupid to see what’s coming. So I’m dragging you off for a celebratory lunch. Right now! Drop everything and grab your hat and coat!’

  Chapter 16

  A doom

  William Gabriel’s rooms, Harley Street, London. Friday 26 June 1936, 11 am.

  ‘Mr Gabriel is just finishing a phone call, Mr and Mrs Mitchell,’ the receptionist says. ‘He won’t be long.’

  Husband and wife settle into adjacent chairs in the waiting room. They hold hands in silence. Mitchell has stopped hiding his recurring bouts of sharp abdominal pain from Flo. They tell their own tale, and he can tell that she knows it. She moves through the day under a pall of sadness. Beneath it he detects a growing resignation towards an approaching calamity which neither of them has yet dared name.

  The phone rings on the reception desk, and the receptionist answers it. When she returns the phone to its cradle, she comes over to Mitchell. ‘Mr Gabriel will see you now, sir.’

  He squeezes Flo’s hand before releasing it and following the receptionist into the surgery. He finds Gabriel putting up two series of radiographs on the light boxes above the examination table. The surgeon turns to greet him and shake his hand.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t see you at St Mark’s when these X-rays were taken, Reg. I was operating, and it turned out more protracted than I’d hoped. In any event it’s better that we meet here. More congenial. Did Flo come with you?’

  ‘Yes. She’s waiting outside, Bill.’

  ‘Right. I’ll examine you before we ask her to come in. You know the routine by now. I’ll finish putting up these pictures while you get ready.’

  By the time Mitchell has fought the pain to lie on the examination table and expose his abdomen, Gabriel has finished placing the radiographs and is staring at them. He turns to his patient and begins the familiar probing while constantly glancing back at the screens. The bolts of pain are worse than they were at the previous consultation. Gabriel apologises with added emphasis each time Mitchell winces.

  He steps back. ‘I’ve tortured you enough now, Reg. You can get dressed again and come and sit down.’

  Gabriel sits at his desk and scribbles notes while Mitchell attaches his colostomy girdle again, rearranges his clothing and sits down opposite him. There’s not a hint of reassurance in the air, just as Mitchell dreaded. The surgeon does add the personal touch of going out to the waiting room himself to greet Flo and usher her in to his room. Her eyes meet Mitchell’s as she takes the seat beside him. Her expression tells him she’s fearing the worst but is determined to maintain her composure.

  ‘Last time I saw Reg I withheld a diagnosis because I entertained remaining doubts,’ Gabriel says. ‘Possibly his condition was not as bad as it seemed. Unfortunately I no longer harbour any doubts.’

  Mitchell breaks the silence that follows that comment. ‘So you have no doubt that my cancer has now returned. And it’s spreading and growing.’

  ‘I’m afraid so, Reg. I can’t put off a firm diagnosis any longer. The tumours we detected last time have grown, and a couple of new ones have shown up. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Short of a miracle, then, I’ll die within a year’s time – is that it, Bill?’

  Flo takes out a handkerchief and weeps softly into it. Mitchell feels his own eyes watering in sympathy with hers, though the news is no surprise.

  ‘Only a fool would give you an exact prediction of how long you have left. Cancers grow at unpredictable rates. But in my experience, twelve months would be a reasonable guess.’

  Flo rouses herself and stares fiercely at Gabriel. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting that we just do nothing and wait for Reg to die! There must be something that can be done for him!’

  Gabriel meets her gaze and chooses his words with care.

  ‘I’m not suggesting that you both just wait for the end, Flo. I’m suggesting you get on with your lives as they are until it’s no longer possible. I know you both well enough to see you have a wonderful marriage and family life. And Reg continues to engage with his work intensely – work that is of national significance. It’s these things that continue to matter, just as they have up to now.’

  ‘But you seem to be ruling out any treatment for his condition, Bill!’

  ‘As far as I know, there’s none that would be worth pursuing.’

  ‘Why can’t you operate and remove these new tumours – or at least try to?’

  ‘When cancer reaches this stage it’s inoperable. The very attempt would be a breach of my Hippocratic oath to do no harm, knowing full well that the attempt to prolong Reg’s life is futile. He would be left eviscerated – a bedridden, pain-racked invalid unable to carry on a normal life.’
r />   ‘I’ve read about alternatives to surgery, especially radiation,’ Flo persists. Why don’t you recommend that?’

  ‘For the same reasons. There’s no hard evidence that the application of cobalt rays or X-rays has prolonged any cancer patient’s life. And the attempts to do so have often drastically diminished the quality of whatever life the patients have had left. Rays don’t discriminate between healthy tissue and cancerous tumours, unfortunately. They damage vital organs too. The patient ends up eviscerated, just as he would if subjected to ill-advised surgery. In both cases the clinician would be doing harm. Harm that can even shorten lives he intends to prolong.’

  ‘So is this what you’re saying?’ Mitchell asks, casting a glance at his wife. ‘Flo and I should firmly decide not to take risks and waste time looking for cures where there are none. And we should use the time I have left to live and work as we’re doing now, with the assistance of pain killers when necessary, I presume?’

  ‘Precisely, Reg. Look, in my early days in practice I noticed a pattern that deeply disturbed me. It still does when I come across it. Incurable cancer patients throwing away what’s left of their lives in an obviously vain attempt to escape their fate. I happened to mention it over dinner to an old university friend of mine, a philosophy lecturer no less, all those years ago. “It’s all about the fear of death,” he said. “You should read Seneca’s letters to his friend Lucilius on the subject”.’

  ‘Who the devil is Seneca?’ Mitchell demands.

  ‘An ancient Roman stoic philosopher, darling,’ Flo cuts in. ‘Now let Bill finish his point.’

  ‘Yes, well, I did read Seneca’s letters,’ Gabriel resumes. ‘The fear of death is totally irrational, he points out – what harm can befall someone who no longer exists? So it’s a question of character development for every living individual to see deeply into this truth, to study death, and cast off all fear of it. This way they’ll live wisely, make the most of their lives, and meet death calmly when it comes. Instead of wasting their lives frantically trying to elude it. The suggestion I’m making to you both – about getting on with your present well-lived lives as long as you can – comes straight from Seneca. And Hippocrates, of course.’

  ‘But Reg’s situation is tragic, and this advice seems so, well, coldblooded !’

  ‘Yes, Flo, I agree with you. It’s tragic to receive a prognosis like this at Reg’s age, just forty-one. But Seneca makes another relevant point here. We need to evaluate our lives according to how we live them, not how long they last. Very few of us will contribute anything like what Reg has already achieved, no matter how long we live. That consideration does diminish the tragic element we’re talking about.’

  ‘That’s not much comfort for those of us who’ll be left behind,’ Flo says, weeping again.

  ‘I understand that, Flo,’ Gabriel murmurs. ‘There’s no cure for the human condition either, I’m afraid. In our mature years – sometimes younger – we all start to lose people who are very close to us. We can’t escape that any more than we can escape our own deaths. We have to go through these experiences with as much wisdom and fortitude as we can. They shatter us, but in the long run they also season us. You’ve already shown a great deal of both the virtues in question.’

  The trio falls into silence.

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s it, Bill,’ Mitchell says. ‘I’d like to thank you for your candour. Your refusal to varnish over anything. And for your skill and kindness in the past.’

  ‘Thank you for saying that, Reg. But I hope you’ll come back at any time if you want to discuss anything you think I might be able to help with.’

  Mitchell’s office, Supermarine works in Woolston. Tuesday 30 June 1936, 10 am. The phone rings. He picks up the receiver.

  ‘Sir Robert is here to see you, RJ.’

  ‘Ask him to come in, please Vera.’

  This time McLean makes a circumspect entrance, briefcase in hand.

  ‘Good morning, Bob. Take a seat. How are you?’

  ‘Good morning, RJ. I’m fine. But how are you? I’ve just heard the most dreadful news about your health via Flo and Noel. Is it true?’

  ‘Yes, it’s true. My cancer is back. Inoperable. That gives me another twelve months, give or take. In the meantime I’m carrying on all right.’

  ‘My God! That’s devastating! What can I say? Anyway, you must tell me if there’s anything I can do. For you. For Flo and Gordon.’

  ‘It’s not just them either, unfortunately. At this rate my mother will survive me too. So yes: three years ago you said you’d see to it that Vickers and Supermarine made binding provision for them in the event of my death. So they’re not forced to live in reduced circumstances. Can I still rely on that?’

  ‘Beyond any doubt. Dammit, what sort of people would we be if we didn’t do the right thing by your family? Not least after you’ve given us the Spitfire.’

  ‘Thank you, Bob. My family’s future is my greatest worry right now. I’d be grateful if you’d set the wheels in motion as soon as you can and do so in consultation with my solicitor in Stoke. I’ll give you his name and address.’

  ‘Of course, RJ! Of course! We’ll cross every t and dot every i so well that even you’ll stop worrying about it.’

  ‘Good. Thank you again for that. And by the way, I don’t want anyone at the works here to know about my situation.’

  McLean nods, though he looks puzzled. ‘If you say so. But I do feel duty-bound to let Stuffy Dowding know, if you’ll allow that. The information may impact on his thinking. He’d be the soul of discretion, of course.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s reasonable. Now, you no doubt had something else in mind when you dropped by today?’

  McLean seems disconcerted by the turn in the conversation. ‘Well, given what you’ve just told me, it doesn’t matter anymore.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that. What is it?’

  ‘All right. But only because you insist. Along with four other firms with experience in developing bombers, Vickers has received an invitation from the ministry to tender for the design of a radically new heavy bomber. The specification accompanied the invitation.’

  ‘So if Vickers is interested, your Barnes Wallis will get the job.’

  ‘Well no. The ministry and the Air Council have dropped hints that they want us at Vickers to pass the specification on to Supermarine as our subsidiary. No prize for guessing who they have in their sights, RJ.’

  ‘But that makes no sense. We’ve never made bombers here at Supermarine. Why don’t they just want the established firms in the area to come up with new designs?’

  ‘Does it matter, given what you’ve told me about your illness? Won’t you be leaving us shortly to rest, seek treatment, and whatever?’

  ‘Certainly not! There’s no treatment available. Besides, I’m still a going concern. And the Spitfire has more or less passed out of my hands now. So let’s get back to the question why the ministry and council would want me involved in this new project.’

  McLean grasps his head in both hands and shakes it, as if to purge it of all its silly assumptions. ‘Well, I’d obviously got that all wrong – sorry, RJ! To answer your question: they want something that breaks the existing mould for bombers. They want a plane that’s much faster and more able to defend itself, has a greater range, and carries a bigger payload than the current crop. They’re worried that the established firms will fall back on their tried and true solutions and not come up with anything really new. The Spitfire makes a complete break with the past. So maybe you can do the same for bombers as you’ve already done for fighters.’

  ‘What use would the air force make of this new bomber, do you imagine?’

  ‘Well we can’t defend ourselves just by shooting down the bloody Nazis’ bombers and fighter escorts when they come over to us! We’ll need to bugger up their airfields, wreck their planes on the ground, and the factories that make them. They’re also producing submarines in large numbers. We’ll need
to be able to hit their shipyards and U-boat pens. And their armaments factories in general.’

  Mitchell looks intently at his colleague, all sense of his own predicament gone. ‘Are you going to show me the spec, then, Bob?’

  McLean pulls a document out of his briefcase and passes it over to Mitchell. His movements are still hesitant, as if he feels he’s doing something foolish. ‘Here it is. Coded B.12/36. Hot off the press.’

  Mitchell flips through it. ‘Right, well, they want something with four engines, a cruising speed over 230 miles an hour, top speed over 275, and a range of 2,000 miles. Three gun turrets – nose, tail, and a retractable one amidships. Normal payload of 2,000 pounds, airframe stressed to cope with catapult-assisted take-offs. I see what you mean, Bob – this thing would certainly be a cut above what’s on offer now. It’ll call for some pretty creative engineering.’

  ‘But is it feasible? Should Supermarine take it on?’

  ‘Why not?’

  For once McLean seems to be struggling. ‘I’m thinking primarily about your health, RJ…’

  ‘Don’t! According to my present prognosis I should be able to oversee the work of producing a design we can take to the ministry. If they like it and order the construction of a prototype, though, I’ll probably be out of the picture for that bit. Which isn’t an obstacle. No-one’s indispensable. We’ve got the industry’s best technical staff in the country under this roof – I’ve already seen to that. They’ll do you proud in my absence. Now, can you give me a Supermarine type number for this bomber of yours, Bob?’

  ‘Yes. Type 316.’

  Chapter 17

  A king

  RAF Martlesham Heath, Suffolk. Saturday 11 July 1936, 11 am. Apart from the sparse scattering of civilians, perhaps eighty men in air force uniform are milling around at various points in front of the aerodrome buildings. The air crackles with nervous energy. A military band has assembled at the northern end of the airfield under two flagpoles, one flying the Union Jack and the other the RAF ensign.